The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (22 page)

He places one hand on the back of his head and extends the other, pointing toward the office.

Kash and I don’t fight. We have never fought. Not like this. We bicker, we tease, we poke, but this—whatever
this
is—is so uncomfortable. Even with his eyes on my back, knowing that he’s following me into a space where it will be only us, feels irksome.

I sit at the desk, taking Kash’s seat, without waiting for an invitation or instruction. I know his password to unlock his screen and exactly where to go to locate the files. Once they’re pulled up, my quick need for actions and results stops.

The very first image is a close-up of Kash. Snow is ricocheting off his jacket, revealing King or Parker was likely standing where he’s looking with a fond smile that too many know and love, and one that has always made me feel slightly possessive over. His umber eyes are shining with the reflection of the snow, curtained with thick lashes that aren’t overly long or curled but perfectly accentuate the wide eyes they line, as though created by a well-practiced artist. The lens has picked up everything—from the small scar above his eyebrow that he got from running into a door as a kid to the small lines of time that have gathered around his upturned lips and eyes. I hope they keep them; they make Kash look even sexier. I’m sure every woman and girl over the age of fifteen would stare at those very same creases and imagine how each and every one was created. What knowledge he possesses—both inside the bedroom and classroom—the secrets he carries, how many truths he knows, what burdens he buries. I wonder about each of them as I scan slowly over his face for a third time.

“This is a good shot,” I say quietly, my attention remaining on the screen.

“I look like a doofus.”

I chuckle. “Because you are a doofus.”

I click to the next photo and have to sit back in the chair because it’s so bright on Kash’s large screen. The azure sky against the pristine snow is difficult to look at for more than a moment, and makes me blink back the moisture forming as I try to focus on the small black object level with the clouds from this angle.

“They need to mess with the coloring, or they’ll blind readers.” I make the image smaller to try and stop the stars from forming every time I blink. “I see what you mean though. I have no idea who that is.”

I click to the next one as Kash admits he doesn’t know who it is, either.

The next picture is clearly of Kash, the angle low. The camera must have been on the ground. It’s an awesome shot, showing off not only Kash’s control, but also his bike.

“Guy fans will dig this, but the girls probably won’t. It’s really hard to tell that it’s you.”

Again, I move forward.

Tommy is next in line. Even with his jacket on, it’s obvious his frame is far narrower than Kash’s. I feel guilty for comparing the two. Tommy is attractive, and he pulls off the thin look well. He doesn’t look scrawny or like a cokehead. He looks lean and tough and the image of what many women love and adore. His face is longer than Kash’s. Even his focus is completely different. He doesn’t look blissful but possessed.

I can’t decide if it’s enchanting or alarming because Kash clears his throat from beside me, making my attention move to his tightened jaw. He releases a deep breath and then reaches forward and shoves me. I glare at him accusingly, shocked that he is acting like a ten-year-old once again, rather than being an adult, like I so desperately need him to be.

“Summer,” he growls my name, exposing he’s equally as annoyed and confused. “I don’t know what to do.”

I stare at him, noticing every blink of my eyelids because I’m so focused on his face. I have no intention of saying anything. I can’t. My throat is tight, and my eyes once again are itching with the need to cry. The reaction is so unbearably ridiculous and annoying that it makes me even angrier with Kash.

“Do you remember that time we went to San Francisco, and we walked across the entire bridge? Then, you took off your sweatshirt, and the security guys came running?”

My brows scrunch as I work to recall the wind that kept pulling my hair in my eyes, the noise of the cars each time they hit a new plank on the bridge, and finally, the faces of the men dressed in all black as they nearly attacked me. “Yeah…”

“I feel like that right now.”

“Like what? Like I’m about to knock you on your ass?”

Kash nods with a teasing smirk stretching his lips. It’s a beautiful smirk, his lips lopsided and his slightly squared chin becoming more prominent. “Let’s go back.”

“It’s too late to reverse time.”

“I mean, San Francisco.”

I shake my head in short jerks, attempting to figure out where in the hell this conversation has gone and where he’s going. “What are you talking about?”

“We can go tonight.”

“To San Francisco?”

“You can get more of those ridiculous socks you loved.”

“Those are awesome socks,” I argue.

His smirk grows into a full smile, one that shifts everything within my chest. “We can do the full tourist thing. No bikes. We’ll find the best donuts in town and go to Alcatraz since we never got the chance. We can see everything.”

“How does this have anything to do with you feeling like you’re about to be knocked over?”

“I just need to find some balance. Let’s go. Let’s do this.” He faces me, his eyes pleading louder than his words.

“What about work?”

“Who cares about work? There’s nothing big happening right now.”

“There’s a ton going on right now!” My objection is met with a swift shake of his head. “There is!” I persist. “You need to work on your choreography and get these all sorted out.” I gesture toward the computer.

“I need—”

My phone rings, the volume set loud. I dig it out of my pocket and see Tommy’s name across my screen and feel the cereal I ate for breakfast turn into cement. Guilt is bubbling in my stomach, making me sad and angry and irrationally uneasy. I answer, trying to lean farther away from Kash so he can’t hear.

“Hey! Are you about ready?”

I press my lips together in an attempt to catch up with my emotions that are spiraling toward resentment, again. I don’t understand why I am feeling guilty when Kash has had eleven years to act on things and is just now attempting to do so, and failing so miserably.

“Yeah.” I swallow the next words that wish to object. “Want to meet at Toby’s in, like, thirty?”

“Why don’t I pick you up?”

“That’s okay.” I don’t want him at my house. That seems too serious.

“Okay
…”

I ignore his silent request for clarification. “All right, I’ll see you then.” I hang up, feeling Kash’s stare.

“Who are you meeting?”

I look up and notice the anger dilating Kash’s pupils. Over his shoulder, I catch sight of Parker approaching the office door.

“Where are you going?” Kash asks, his voice losing the patience it weakly held with the last question.

“Out.”

“Out?” he asks, his eyes growing.

“Like on a date?” Parker asks, swallowing the final bite of a granola bar.

I glare at him and then at Kash, whose murderous expression doesn’t seem fair.

“With who?” Kash demands.

“I bet I know,” Parker says in an obnoxious singsong tone. “Tommy.”

“Tommy who?” Kash’s attention is zeroed in on me.

I don’t know if he even realizes I wasn’t the one who answered.

“How many Tommys do you know?” Parker asks.

“Tommy Chapman?” Kash asks, his chin jutting forward with shock. “You’re not dating Tommy Chapman.”

My eyes narrow with indignant surprise, and I laugh. It’s so dark, humorless, and unfamiliar that I can’t believe it came from me.

“Here we go,” Parker says.

I don’t know the context he is directing this to be interpreted. I don’t care. I’m preoccupied with staring back at Kash with an equal intensity that he’s glaring at me with.

“I need your help tonight. We have to get this work done.”

I shake my head at Kash. “You were just talking about flying to San Francisco!”

“Yeah, but we’d get this done on the flight down.”

“This will be good for both of us.” I think. I hope.

“I can’t
…”

“It needs to happen,” I state firmly. Pushing the chair back, I stand and don’t look back as I brush by Parker, grab my things, and let the rain pelt me while I travel the short distance to my truck.

G
UILT IS NEARLY
suffocating me when I pull up to Uncle Toby’s shop. This date doesn’t seem fair to anyone involved, and I’m well aware of that, yet I still get out of my truck and head to where Tommy stands just inside the glass front doors.

Tommy smiles as I open the heavy door, and his eyes brighten as he looks me over. I realize he has no idea that my smile is fake and forced, just like my hair.

“Hey!” Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me tightly against his chest. His cologne is sweet as it lingers in my nose. I both like and hate it at the same time. “So, I was thinking about what you said, and since it’s a little later than I was expecting to get things started, I think you’re right. We can stay in Portland. Maybe check out some breweries?”

“Sure.” I smile brightly or at least try. While my preference is for wine, I don’t mind an occasional beer, and staying within the city will make it even better.

“Great.”

His expression is difficult to decipher. He’s smiling, but it isn’t as broad as I’ve seen it on other occasions. It makes the guilt swimming in my stomach feel heavier. I know nearly all of Kash’s expressions and reactions. I can read his intentions, his fears, his annoyances. Every bit of him has always been so clear that the recent challenges to do so is has knocked me completely off balance.

“Ready?” Tommy asks. His voice does not match the face currently filling my thoughts.

He smiles again when I nod. His chin looks rough, but the hair dusting it is so blond, I only catch sight of it when the light hits it just right.

“So, since you blocked the first rule of dating—pick up date—should I expect you to want to drive yourself?”

I smile brazenly. “Do you drive as aggressively as you ride?”

“I bet you’re hoping I do.”

He is no surer of this than I am, but a side of my lips quirk up, and I make a show of shoving my keys into my purse.

He leads me across the parking lot to an ostentatious Hummer that is painted a bright shade of yellow.

“Do they make these in another color besides black and yellow?” I ask.

His chin drops, a small smirk crossing his lips. I feel like I should care more about trying to figure out whether it’s out of annoyance that I’m not impressed or humored by the fact.

“I figure you don’t need an invitation to change the radio, but just in case, here’s your green light.”

I attempt to make the same expression he gave me, allowing my lips to curl only a fraction and my eyes to only settle on him for a few seconds, before I reach forward and change the channel. The song that was playing was even a good one, but I’m not about to admit that.

His eyebrows rise when I stop on a loud rap song that Parker loves and plays incessantly.

Mine also rise. “You don’t like it?”

“It shocks me a little that you do. Hell, you shock me most of the time. I should wait to be shocked for when you don’t surprise me.”

My confession that I actually hate this song is on the tip of my tongue. I bite it down to avoid confessing that I’m not sure how many of the things I think I like are things that my friends—specifically Kash—like. Instead, I reach forward and press the scan button, landing on multiple stations before finally stopping on a jazz station that brings memories of my childhood back.

While kids my age grew up listening to New Kids on the Block and other pop bands, my parents insisted on teaching me what they considered ‘good music,’ which translated to jazz. I used to hate having to listen to it. Sitting here now, I think it might be one of the best things they taught me.

“Now, you’re just fucking with me,” he says.

Without looking for an explanation, Tommy changes the radio. Maybe it’s for the better. Nostalgia and I seem to be sharing a very fickle relationship lately.

When we arrive at the brewery, he takes up three parking spots. An older woman shakes her head. A guy heading toward an SUV cracks a joke to his friend. I know both are directed at us.

We take seats at a long, polished bar and are instantly greeted by a man with an equally shiny shaved head. His goatee doesn’t have any traces of gray, but his voice is deep, and his face lined. He looks the way I feel internally—a bunch of contradictions.

“You guys staying dry out there?”

Oregonians love to talk about the rain. I’m not sure why when it’s nearly a daily occurrence for three hundred days out of the year.

“It’s starting to lighten up a little,” I tell him.

He wipes at an already clean spot on the bar with a white rag. “Are you guys familiar with our beers?”

“I think we need a few samplers to become better acquainted with them.” Tommy doesn’t make eye contact with the bartender, nor does he answer when asked if there’s anything else we need.